


there's no antidote (choose your words)

by atheoryon



Series: Winterhawk Bingo 2019 [5]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Art, Confessions, Europe, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, M/M, Marvel Cameos, Mission Fic, Museums, Nederlands | Dutch, Road Trips, bucky speaks one (1) dutch sentence in this, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21973570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheoryon/pseuds/atheoryon
Summary: One of these days, Clint was going to have a normal mission, during normal work hours.Today was not that day, or that mission.Clint and Bucky are on a mission to catch an art forger, but in between museums and airport waiting, that's not exactly what they catch.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo 2019 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1454119
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	there's no antidote (choose your words)

**Author's Note:**

> hello.
> 
> this fic should not have taken as long as it did. but it did. and here we are at last. my fill for the 'air vents' square for the winterhawk bingo!
> 
> this was betaed by the lovely [betheflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betheflame), to whom i owe the world because i am 99% sure it was unreadable without her.
> 
> title is taken from harry styles' ever since new york, because i am sticking through with one direction-adjacent lyrics for this.

One of these days, Clint was going to have a normal mission, during normal work hours.

Today was not that day, or that mission.

This mission itself was very simple, in theory; tail a bad guy until he does or admits to doing something illegal, hand him over to whatever SHIELD agents will be ready to take him in and call it a day.

According to rumor, Reinhold Vasters was one of the biggest names in art forgery right now, notorious for always working alone, but those rumors had yet to prove anything. Much to Steve’s annoyance, the guy hadn’t even done his research for his name, given that the actual Vasters faked jewelry and this one faked paintings from the seventeenth century onward.

When Steve had finished the impromptu art history lecture, he’d announced Clint would be working with the Winter Soldier, who Steve affectionately referred to as ‘Buck’, to the dismay of both director Hill and the registrar, who clearly did not want to have to write down ‘Buck’ when writing about the Winter Soldier.

Clearly, Steve’s briefing had been  _ lying _ to them, because what seemed to be a very straight-forward job had turned into a sight-seeing trip through various European countries, with zero fucking actual intel. 

All they got, every damn time, was what museum he was going to, with explicit orders to  _ not  _ do anything until he actually did something illegal. Tailing missions were already the fucking worst, in Clint’s professional yet humble opinion, but they were made approximately a gazillion times worse when said tailing had to be done in museums.

The mission had officially started in the MoMA, good ol’ NYC, where Vasters was supposed to be looking at some of the works by Gina Beavers, which didn’t actually mean anything to Clint, but Pepper Potts was apparently very excited about.

Of course, Vasters wasn’t nice enough to just straight up start monologuing about a painting he was going to copy, so Clint and Bucky were forced to actually go through the entire museum. That in and of itself wouldn’t have been a problem, had Bucky not decided to fully commit to the hipster art student look he was going for. Denim overall shorts, a white button-up with paint splotches on it, all paired with Doc Martens. Very distracting to Clint, who wanted to focus on his mission, and to Bucky, who’d so far been hit on by three different guys and one very hopeful woman who clearly hadn’t caught up on the latest gay looks. 

Not that Clint blamed any of them, particularly, he’d also noticed the way Bucky’s thighs looked, but it had been a long time since he’d had some proper time off, he wanted this mission done with as soon as possible.

Life, or more accurately, Reinhold Vasters, had other plans.

After the MoMA, it had been the Estonian National Museum, followed by the Berlinische Galerie and the Musée de l’Orangerie. Admittedly more museums than anyone would ever go to in one trek, but not something they could actually use to arrest him. 

When they had left the Musée de l’Orangerie, once again a fruitless endeavor, Bucky made a joke for the first time in the two years Clint had known him. “I’m pretty sure we could just frame him for something or other, doesn’t even have to be paintin’ related.”

Clint snorted, glad for the first hint of non-mission-focused Bucky. He knew the guy was fun, they’d all been forced to hear all about it from Steve and got to witness it first-hand during movie nights and poker games when Bucky had actually returned, but during missions he was a 100% business. 

“Framing would be painting related, though.” 

Bucky smoothed over the small smile playing on his lips as quick as he could with a disappointed sigh over the terrible pun, but Clint still caught it. He happily punched the air, crowing over his victory making the notorious Winter Soldier smile with a pun, getting a few looks from annoyed Parisians who clearly didn’t like tourists.

Clint’s good mood didn’t last though, for as soon as they got back to the shitty hotel they were staying at, they were dragged into a supply closet by a harried and bland looking SHIELD agent, who handed them even more plane and museum tickets before shoving them back out toward the elevator. 

Clint was tired, Bucky was tired, Vasters very much wasn’t, museums sucked and  _ aw, Vasters, no _ , the guy still wasn’t done with looking at paintings. Apparently the guy had booked a flight to the Netherlands and bought tickets for the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Museum. 

At least Clint knew who Van Gogh was. Somewhat. Guy with the stars and the ear. Other than that, he was  _ so _ done. He was in Paris, he hadn’t had anything even remotely resembling a crêpe, he’d been in and out of museums for the past week, the hotel they were staying in was shitty, the lack of personal space was shitty, everything was  _ shitty _ .

All he wanted was his own bed, some private dick time and maybe some of the fancy macarons the patisserie across the street sold. None of  _ that  _ was going to happen anytime soon, though, because of course their flight was at seven in the fucking morning, way before the patisserie opened and, with Bucky chain smoking on the small balcony, very much awake and probably hyper-aware of everything happening around him, there was no way he was going to get to jerk off. 

***

Airports sucked. They always did, but Clint was pretty sure the Devil had an extra hand in designing Charles de Gaulle.  _ Apparently _ , they couldn’t just take a SHIELD jet because it would ‘attract too much attention’ and ‘you need to keep playing the part in case you run into Vasters’, which was all fine and dandy, but civilian airports were simply the worst. Clint knew his complaining wasn’t entirely justified, he wasn’t the one that had had to go through security with a metal arm, but still, security was annoying. 

Even worse, when they actually got through, they were bombarded with overpriced French souvenirs and alcohol, most importantly lots of macarons, which Bucky dragged him past, showing zero mercy, even at Clint’s insistence that he had to eat them - “c’mon Bucky, they’re  _ purple _ .” 

Honestly, Russians, they really needed to learn how to have fun when it didn’t involve vodka, poker, or maiming people. It didn’t matter that Bucky was a born and raised in Brooklyn, he still very much enjoyed putting on an exaggerated Russian accent with Natasha and drank vodka like it was water, Clint could call him a Russian all he wanted. 

Just not around Steve. 

Kicked puppy eyes, man, how on earth did Sam manage to resist those?

Bucky unceremoniously dumped Clint on one of the shitty plastic benches and fucking patted his head before mumbling he’d be back soon, voice all gruff and an expression that matched it to a T, walking off without so much as a glance back, leaving Clint to sit there, confused and dazed.

When Bucky got back, he was holding a cup of coffee, and a sheet of something Clint couldn’t make out. He sat down, back military ramrod straight, a lot more dignified than Clint, who’d stayed in the exact same position he’d been put in. Bucky shoved the coffee in Clint’s hands along with what turned out to be a sheet of purple stickers, before getting out a book of his backpack, not once looking at Clint, with the kind of determination that it had to be on purpose. 

Clint sat there dumbfounded, holding the coffee and stickers, feeling something clench in his chest despite Bucky’s closed-off body language and lack of verbal responses. The purple stickers were probably meant to be mocking, but Clint couldn’t find it in himself to care. Eventually his body caught up with his brain, a grin on his face as he set to work on decorating first his coffee cup, then his phone case and, with a certain trepidation, he stuck the last one, a set of three hand-drawn purple hearts, on Bucky’s shoulder, where once upon a time the red star had been. 

Bucky’s face became even more impassive, if such a thing was possible, which Clint considered to be an absolute win. The Winter Soldier, reading a book in some foreign language Clint didn’t recognise; with a murder glare one might use the formal you for, if English had such a thing; and a fucking purple sticker stuck to his murder weapon of an arm.

If this was how the rest of their flight was going to go, Clint might just find it in him to not find it horrible. 

Apparently, thinking things didn’t jinx them. For once, SHIELD had decided they could fly with a company that wasn’t budget, which meant they were greeted by flight attendants in shockingly bright blue outfits, who greeted Clint in only mildly accented English, before one of them saw the book Bucky was holding and switched to what was probably rapid-fire Dutch. To Clint’s eternal confusion, Bucky responded in kind and after an apparently funny comment, he actually laughed, the real thing, and slung his arm around Clint’s waist, hugging him close. 

“Je weet hoe Amerikanen zijn, ze kennen altijd alleen maar Engels.” Judging by Bucky’s confiding stage whisper and the stewardess’ answering laugh, Clint could only guess Bucky’d said something not particularly flattering, but he was still too shocked by Bucky’s arm around his waist to come up with a reply. 

It wasn’t until they found their seats that Clint also found his voice again. “What was  _ that _ for? And since when do you know Dutch?” 

“Hydra thought it’d be useful for me to know a lot of languages, I didn’t exactly disagree, so I kept them in when Shuri got rid of the trigger words and everything. The flight attendant assumed we were a couple, I figured it wouldn’t hurt.” Before Clint could get out his next question, Bucky already answered it for him. “Apparently people assume you’re gay when you read explicit gay literature, who’d have thought.” 

Clint could only gape at that, watching Bucky settle back into reading his book which  _ apparently  _ was instantly recognisable by Dutch people as being about gay sex. Guess you really do learn something new everyday.

It was also pretty clearly that  _ all _ the new Clint was going to learn that day, because now that they were done with social interaction with strangers, Bucky was right back to being grumpy and unapproachable. Clint huffed. Two could play that game, so he took out his hearing aids with more force than strictly necessary, resolutely staring ahead for the rest of the flight.

Sniper focus for the win.

***

Sniper focus did not cut it when trying to get to the most tourist-filled place in Amsterdam. Look, Clint had visited Amsterdam before, in his early twenties, and yes, there had been weed involved but  _ goddamn _ couldn’t these tourists be interested in the fucking architecture? In between getting yelled at by people on bikes, running into incredibly stoned tourists, and endless amounts of East-Asian people who decided to start taking selfies with a fucking selfie-stick in the middle of the sidewalk - Clint was honestly considering going back to the wrong side of the law. 

Bucky seemed to be having similar thoughts, but was decidedly more proactive about them. He grabbed Clint’s hand with his flesh one and started power walking, shoving people out of the way with the metal one with the kind of righteous fury typically reserved for Sam when he ran into racists who thought he shouldn’t be Captain America. It wasn’t exactly the most spy-like way of moving, and somewhere in the back of Clint’s mind he was trying to come up with back alleys and roofs from what he’d gleaned from the map at the airport, but he couldn’t deny this was the fastest way they’d get anywhere. 

Even so, it still took them quite a while to reach the Museum square. They sat down on a patch of lawn with the entrance to the Van Gogh museum within eyesight. Clint immediately plopped unceremoniously on the grass, stretching his legs as much as he could. Bucky, however, got out his leather jacket and carefully put it down, sitting down like a rich, old, white lady. Or, a rich, old, white lady with a leather jacket, biceps, and a metal arm. 

“Just because you look good with old jeans, doesn’t mean mine need to get dirty as well.” Which, fair enough. Clint conceded with a head tilt and started looking around, taking in their nearest neighbours and the queue for the museum. 

“Please tell me Hill mailed you tickets, because if we have to wait in line that long, I think there might be some legal issues involving murder.” The line stretched all the way around the corner, disappearing from sight. 

Bucky gave the line an assessing look before judging it: “Justifiable homicide, we’ll be fine. Besides, we’ll be here for a bit before we have to go in. Hill’s intel said he’s goin’ for extended lunch first.” 

“Why didn’t we think of that?” Clint could really go for a cup of coffee  _ not  _ brewed in an airplane and/or airport. And proper food. Did they have proper macarons in Amsterdam? Clint’s internal monologue was cut off by Bucky clearing his throat, pointedly glaring between Clint’s general groin area and the food stall a hundred-odd meters (blending in with locals, aw yes) away from them. 

It took Clint three seconds too many to realise that Bucky was not, in fact, looking to get laid in the open air but meant his wallet. Clint sighed: “Yes, dear, of course, dear.” Bucky smiled, so bright it had to be sarcastic, then dropped it into his usual expression of ‘I will murder your puppy if you so much as breathe wrong’ when Clint got up. 

At least it was good coffee.

Mostly tolerable coffee.

Okay, the coffee sucked, but it wasn’t airport coffee and he also got some Dutch  _ stroopwafels  _ for Bucky’s abhorrent sweet tooth, so it all worked out, really. 

Mostly.

Sitting in a park on a mostly sunny day was fun, but apparently the former Fist of Hydra got really bored  _ really _ quickly, and eye spy didn’t do it for him, either. At Bucky’s twenty-fifth deep sigh in as many minutes, Clint had had it. “We’re going inside, c’mon, scooping out the area, spy stuff. Important for the mission and you’ll get to be sad about art, win-win.” 

Clint fired off a quick text to Hill about their change of plans before dragging Bucky up, even going as far to pick up his jacket and dusting it off to make sure the queen diva didn’t walk around with grass on him. 

The museum itself was, well, mostly very busy, and Clint didn’t really know a whole lot about the specifics of art, but it was clear there was a whole lot of feeling going on in the paintings and Bucky lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, excitedly talking about art, all his former gruff forgotten. Clint admitted he liked the skeleton with the cigar, because, y’know, it’s a skeleton smoking a cigar. 

Mostly, he let Bucky drag him around the various halls of the museum while he took notes of security cameras, blind spots, air vents and possible escape routes, because from what Hill had said and what they knew of Vasters, he’d find a way to stick around after closing and they’d have to be there. 

Clint was on his third 360 scope of the last room they were in, when Bucky tapped him on his shoulder. He absentmindedly waved him off, trying to calculate the angle at which the camera in the upper right corner was positioned, when Bucky tapped his shoulder again. And again. And again, until Bucky was just punching his shoulder, convincing Clint he was about to be faced with every villain he’d ever fought teamed up. 

That didn’t happen, surprisingly enough.

No, it was just Bucky, standing in front of a pretty large painting, but clearly one of the lesser known ones, if the way everyone was clustered around some yellow thing on the other side of the room was anything to go by. Bucky, though, Bucky was completely enraptured by the pale landscape in front of him. 

He got it, though. The painting was… calm. Clint could recognise approximately three Van Gogh paintings, but this was nothing like those. Not one of the paintings in the museum could hold a candle to the small smile on Bucky’s face, eyes glittering with emotion.

“That’s how I want my life to feel.” Bucky’s admission was soft, quiet, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard. 

And Clint-

Clint tried to stay away from any and all feelings like that, he just tried to get through the day, make his own things work out, and anything that hit too close to home just wasn’t there, if he tried hard enough, that is. But Bucky’s confession tangled his heart up, because suddenly he had the image of a life like that,  _ peaceful _ . He was too much of a paranoid adrenaline-junkie to ever have that, but for now the thought of it was  _ nice _ . 

The moment lingered slightly too long, the vulnerability suddenly too much, a rollercoaster from 0 to 120 in the span of a few seconds, and Bucky jerked like he’d been burned, stalking away with enough Winter Soldier in his step to make the security guard eye him warily for a few seconds before he went back to his phone. 

Clint stumbled after him just a  _ few _ seconds too late, world tilted just a  _ few _ degrees off of its axis. He hadn’t even said anything, for chrissakes, but it had still been so charged. 

Fucking painters, always putting their emotions in things where it didn’t belong. 

Luckily, Bucky seemed just as keen to pretend nothing had occurred, grunting about the last few security issues they had to deal with, a complete 180 from the guy who Clint had been working his way through the museum with. It would’ve been jarring, the level of whiplash, if Clint hadn’t mastered the art of completely shutting off all emotions himself in the span of a few seconds. 

Bucky stalked off to interrogate, or more likely, terrorize one of the poor wardrobe employees to get to the back, giving Clint a breather and a chance to get through the gift shop. There was a total lack of purple, which was just a disgrace, but the sunflower plushies were so adorable that Clint forgave them. 

Keeping one eye on the entrance, Clint worked his way up to the postcards. He slowly walked along the racks, looking for all intents and purposes like he was considering which card to buy, when he suddenly saw, all the way on the bottom in a far-hand corner, the painting that Bucky had loved so much. Clint crouched, taking the card in hand, the entrance completely forgotten. He fingered the corner, mind at war over whether or not to buy the postcard when his phone vibrated a specific pattern in his pocket a few seconds before the alarm went off and all hell broke loose. 

Clint jumped up, sprinting towards where he’d last seen Bucky, pushing a few civilians away as he looked around wildly, trying to locate the reason for the alarm off. Bucky appears out of nowhere from some restricted area, flashing him a few signs in rapid order:  _ V, AV,  _ then a quick  _ OK?  _ and a string of numbers for their rendez-vous point. 

Bucky took off in the opposite direction as soon as he got Clint’s confirmation, somehow managing to not get noticed by the guards. Clint knew Bucky had  _ something _ , he’d known that as soon as he got the text, but why that required the fire alarm going off or air vents above a room filled with letters was beyond him. 

Clint had to crawl his way through the vents and only took one wrong turn, before he got to the intersection Bucky wanted to meet him at. Surprising no-one, Bucky was already there, looking way too comfortable for the situation. 

Bucky motioned Clint closer, holding a finger to his lips and nodding at his phone. Clint shuffled closer, craning his neck so he could read what Bucky had written on his phone. Apparently Vasters had gotten into some kind of trouble with a client who wasn’t too concerned with civilian or art casualties, so Bucky had pulled the alarm. So now they had to stay there, probably until the museum opened again the next morning. Well, not necessarily stay in the vents, but out of sight of the cameras, at least. 

_ Can’t we just ask Hill to let them know we’re here so we can walk around in peace? There are pillows in the gift shop so we can even sit down without feeling dead tomorrow _ . Bucky actually looked surprised by Clint’s suggestion, which, rude, but he did pull out his phone, sending off a quick text. The next second he went what Clint recognised as sniper-still. 

It took Clint a few seconds longer before he heard the guards as well. Not that he understood a word of what they were saying, but they sounded calm enough that Clint wasn’t worried about the building actually burning down. 

Being an Avenger (trademark and all) had a lot of drawbacks, and while this mission was definitely dragging on longer than anyone had wanted it to, there was something to be said for getting to hang around a museum after closing. 

Clint took a quick jog back to the gift shop, grabbing a few pillows and a teddy bear, and went back to Bucky. When he got to the room, Bucky looked almost relaxed, sat on one of those uncomfortable museum benches, absorbed in his book. Clint set up the pillows against one of the other benches, in the middle of the room, allowing them to lean against the couches and be sat on something that wasn’t just direct hard floor even if it would get uncomfortable. 

Bucky, well, if Clint didn’t know better, he’d say Bucky  _ strolled _ over, all casual and relaxed. He picked up the teddy bear that Clint had put down facing him. It was a pretty terrible thing, the almond blossom painting as the pattern in a way that didn’t exactly work but did go for ridiculous prices apparently. Bucky, though, he smiled, sitting down and his arms crossed on the seating of the bench, head resting on his flesh arm and the bear nestled in the crook of his metal one. 

Whiplash, all around, but some messed up part of Clint really liked seeing all the different bits and pieces that made up Bucky Barnes. This guy who was all grumpy and deflective, but lit up around art, was happy with stickers on his lethal weapon of an arm, and happily cuddled up with a fucking teddy bear. It was like an abstract painting, all Picasso-like, all out of place but in a way that almost made sense, in a way that it didn’t.

Clint didn’t know that much about art.

“So what’s the deal with the gay sex book?” Clint’s attention span had been pulled away to the book Bucky had placed next to him. The cover didn’t seem to give too much away, just a plain cover and presumably the title and author. 

“That’s a weird way to start twenty questions.” It didn’t feel like a deflection, with Bucky’s shit-eating grin halfway visible over his arm. 

“Well, it’s more subtle than just asking if you’re gay.” As soon as the words left Clint’s mouth, he wanted to take them back, but Bucky let out a genuine laugh at that, and the tight coil of anxiety that had formed in Clint’s spine lost some of its tension. 

Bucky did answer him, a slow answer where he frequently had to search for the words, but in a way that made Clint feel at ease, Bucky wasn’t nervous but he cared so much about this book that he wanted to do it right. 

“What about you?” Bucky asked. Clint had settled into the same position as Bucky, frowning in confusion, which must have looked vaguely ridiculous, “Have you read any books on gay sex, lately?” 

If Clint had been drinking coffee, he was pretty sure he’d have spit it all over Monty the teddy bear (“Almond, Monty, it makes sense!”, according to one Sergeant Barnes), but Clint managed to keep his surprise to a shocked noise in the back of his throat. 

Although, he did deserve that question. Tit for tat. “Well, not recently but y’know, books are good, regardless of what they’re about.” 

“This does feel like a roundabout twenty questions.” 

“Well if it’s too much beating around the bush, for you, I like guys, but mostly I like coffee,” Clint answered, more casual than he really felt. Bucky snorted at that, so Clint figured he was fine. “Now, c’mon, read me something.” 

For a few seconds, the best sniper from World War II turned legendary assassin turned reformed assassin turned Avenger looked so honestly and openly vulnerable it ached in Clint’s heart, a dull pain that made him want to get out the comfort food and slow music. The next second, it was gone, and Bucky deflected it by making a crack at his translation skills, but he did grab the book. He thought for a few seconds, then thumbed to one of the many dog-eared pages, ending on a well-read and underlined page.

Clint let Bucky read to him, enjoying the vaguely Russian lilt his voice got as he tried to figure out the proper translation from words he’d read so many times he didn’t have to think about them. The emotion was so clear in Bucky’s voice, Clint felt like he was getting to know him through the book. 

And wasn’t that something.

The past few weeks had been a whirlwind of airplanes, museums, cramped hotel rooms and an annoying bad guy who wouldn’t just admit to doing bad guy stuff; but more importantly Clint had gotten to know Bucky. A bit. At least, individually. More so than he had the past two years that Bucky had been back. 

Yes, Bucky was his grumpy mission-self most of the time, but Clint also got to see another side, one he hadn’t known before, one that didn’t come out on poker nights and movie marathons. 

In Estonia, Bucky had pretty much tripped all over himself because of a record they still sold, nevermind the fact that he had a Spotify account and knew perfectly well how to use it.

Germany, he’d found some locally made, soft, knitted, cable sweater and fallen absolutely in love with it. The woman who owned the shop and made the sweater had fallen right back, delighted to have ‘such a sweet young man’ with ‘such good manners’ in her shop. 

Clint was fairly certain she’d have pinched his cheeks if they’d stayed five more minutes.

Then there had been the coffee and the stickers, the excitement over Van Gogh’s art.

And now, now they were in a closed museum, surrounded by priceless art and it could’ve been a dumpster back in Bed-Stuy for all Clint cared, if he just got to listen to Bucky’s soft voice and -

_ Aw, feelings, no. _

Even worse, Clint couldn’t actually find it in himself to be upset, or particularly shocked. It fit, like a shirt you bought years ago, never wore, and then when you did put it on a few times you wondered why you never did before. 

He’d always admired the sniper, from the occasional history book he’d gotten a look at in his patch-like high school education, to when he’d actually joined the team. The last few weeks they’d been, well, not joined at the hip, but the separated version of joined at the hip. Just the tantalizing glimpses of the actual Bucky, the Bucky who got excited about impressionist art and books and who had walked around with a fucking  _ purple hearts  _ sticker on his arm just because Clint had put it there? It was enough for Clint to stumble from ‘healthy admiration for a coworker’ to ‘oh fuck, this could definitely be  _ something _ ’. 

He always knew how to pick ‘em. 

Bucky must have picked up on Clint’s lack of inner crisis, because he closed the book and shuffled across the bench, arranging himself without a comment so he could lay his head in Clint’s lap and stare up at the ceiling. 

Yeah, Clint’s heart was pretty much a goner.

And so was his brain-to-mouth filter, running off without so much as a hint of his consent. He didn’t blurt out a ‘hey, I think I could be in love with you,’ but stories, ranging from the sweater lady in Germany to a mission with Natasha back in the mid-00’s, seemingly unconnected but all with that vital red thread of  _ Bucky, Bucky, Bucky _ . 

Eventually, Clint fell silent, just slowly threading his fingers through Bucky’s hair and smiling, when Bucky’s hand, metal and unforgiving, came up to the back of the neck, more tender than Clint thought was possible. Clint looked down to see Bucky propping himself up on his other arm, expression all mission-focus and fixed on Clint’s face. 

Clint had a moment of sympathy for all the deer who had ever been caught in headlights, except he was fairly certain those deer didn’t like the cars, nor were those headlights so pretty, a deep, steel-blue coming closer and closer. A shaky exhale left Clint’s lips before Bucky’s eyes slipped shut and his followed as if connected, red strings of fate tying them together. 

Bucky’s lips were surprisingly soft, tasting vaguely like honey and slightly sticky from his lip balm, moving against him in a soft slide, unhurried but not hesitant. Clint felt like the waterlily paintings by Monet, like Van Gogh’s sunflowers, calm and there and sure and Bucky was there  _ with  _ him, kissing him, pulling him closer and closer.

Much as it pained him, he did pull away from Bucky, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear and searching Bucky’s eyes again. He still had that mission-face on, but this time it was softer, and a light blush appeared on Bucky’s face, which made Clint’s heart up the marshmallow factor.

Their moment was broken by Bucky’s phone buzzing. 

Clint happily took the distraction, there were only so many  _ feelings  _ he could deal with at once, and Hill pinging through some clear facts and hopefully someone to shoot at would do wonders for clearing his head. 

Clint watched as the softness on Bucky’s face fell away, replaced by a clenched jaw and a sharp exhale.  _ This couldn’t be good _ , flitted through Clint’s mind, immediately confirmed by Bucky carefully putting down his phone before punching the bench with his flesh hand. 

Bucky winced, clearly not realising he’d used that hand instead of the metal one and shook it in an attempt to rid the pain. “That motherfu-- that bastard, that fucking grifter!” He thought better of punching this time, getting up and pacing around, agitation clear in his every step.

Very carefully, Clint took Bucky’s phone, opening Hill’s text with very low expectations as to what he would find, but still not expecting a picture of a caucasian man with a gun next to his head, a puddle of blood underneath him. The next message simply read:  _ Vaster found out. Your plane boards at 2000, debrief at 0830 tomorrow _ .

Bucky had stopped pacing, staring at Clint with just too much of a feral look in his eyes in a way that should’ve made him uncomfortable, but didn’t. That kind of danger always was Clint’s ultimate honeypot, not a shred of self-preservation in sight, just that adrenaline rush he couldn’t help but chase, even knowing they’d messed up their mission. 

Clint was fairly certain that if they boarded a plane and did debrief, Bucky would actually murder someone. The thought didn’t  _ quite _ concern him as much as it should, he knew exactly how Bucky felt. He wanted to atone for what he had done, his control or not, and failing the mission made him feel like he failed that. Even if it was an art forger they had been after, instead of whoever the Neo-Nazis of the week were. 

Bucky had been running himself rugged, taking mission after mission for the past few months, without more than two or three days off in between. Suddenly, Clint knew what to do. 

“We’re not going to the debrief.” 

Bucky didn’t so much as  _ blink _ , confusion apparent in his face.

“No, we’re not, fuck that. I’ll text Hill, we’re taking a vacation.”

That did earn him one, slow blink.

“We’ve earned some damn time off, we’ll rent a car and drive to the south of Germany, some tiny town, good beer and Bratwurst. Technically we even completed mission parameters, we stopped Vasters from forging?” Bucky smiled at that, a dark thing that would’ve made Clint shiver under different circumstances, “A celebration, just you, me, and old German ladies who pinch your cheeks. Might even do some more of that kissing, what'd you say?” 

Bucky looked conflicted for a few seconds, then strode over and kneeled in front of Clint, grabbing his face and kissing him, hard and unrelenting and not at all nice but full of emotion. He pulled away, pressed another kiss to Clint’s cheek and then told him in a carefully controlled voice to text Hill.

Much as Clint might have hated this mission and its complete unpredictability, he wouldn’t have traded it for the world if it meant he got Bucky.

And wasn’t that something. 

**Author's Note:**

> translation for what bucky said in dutch: "You know Americans, they only ever speak English," because i love making digs at monolinguals
> 
> [this](https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/nl/collectie/s0018V196) is the van gogh painting bucky is looking at.
> 
> lemme know what you thought!
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](https://www.atheoryon.tumblr.com) as well!


End file.
